


Mise en Place

by diathlu



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Journalism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Chatting & Messaging, Chefs, Chubby Kink, Drug Use, Eating, F/M, Feeding Kink, Food, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Journalism, Kylo likes watching Rey eat and she loves eating, Light Angst, References to Drugs, Restaurants, Rivals to Lovers, Seattle, Sexual Tension, Stuffing, Texting, Underage Drinking, emergency room visits, food allergies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-05-18 20:18:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14859582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diathlu/pseuds/diathlu
Summary: Mise en place (French pronunciation: [mi zɑ̃ ˈplas]) is a French culinary phrase which means "putting in place" or "everything in its place."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know I shouldn't be attempting two fics at once, but alas. Here I go. Much thanks to my friend Casmé for bouncing ideas with me and being my beta. <3
> 
> Kylo Ren is a renowned chef, and Rey is a foodie who writes for the culinary column in a small magazine called The Resistance.

For what must be the sixth time in the past fifteen minutes, Kylo Ren glances down at the Rolex watch wrapped around his thick wrist. Thanks to some fuck-up by virtue of US Airways, he’s _back_  in Seattle from LA to collect his bag, only to recheck it and rush to his flight out to Denver. In the back of the man’s mind, he thinks _I don’t pay for first class for this bullshit_ , and looks down at his watch for the seventh time. The final time, _thank god_ , because some squirrelly brunette bumps into him and effectively pulls him from his daze. Just then, his bag pushes through the thick, black flaps on the conveyor belt with a gust of cool air. Without a second thought, he grabs for it and turns tail.

By some stretch of a miracle, he ends up at his gate not a moment too soon, and to no surprise he knocks out as soon as he’s able to lean back in his chair.

Hours later, a flight attendant with strikingly red lipstick shakes Kylo awake with a forced smile. Grumbling an apology, he shoulders her away and comes to a lumbering stand. In order to save himself the effort, he paid his valet extra to grab his bags and wait for him outside the airport. Once he manages to navigate his way through the bustling crowds, he finds himself confronted by his ride of choice -- a stark, black Maserati Quattroporte. If he can afford luxury, why the hell not?

The suite that he’s staying in for the next week or so is fully equipped with a functioning kitchen, so it’s ironic that the man - a renowned Master Chef by trade - decide to order takeout. The twelve ounce bottle of beer he procures from the mini-fridge, alone, costs more than his entire meal of beef and broccoli, rice, and extra egg rolls. Expensive is invariably better, except when it comes to hotels, then everything is bullshit and reality is warped. At least, that’s what Kylo’s learned from a life spent sleeping in more hotels than any of his actual _homes_.

(Okay, so that may be a touch dramatic, but he has been travelling the entire thirty-four years in which he’s lived on this damn speck.)

Deciding to go for something a little stronger, the chef figures he’ll fork over the money for the bottle of whiskey while he unpacks his bags. First, he starts with the smaller carry-on, which ended up beneath the plane. It has a few aprons and one uniform folded neatly inside, all shiny, black material, along with some of the basic necessities. The second bag holds a few more uniforms, a couple of suits, spare shoes, a roll of knives, things of that nature. However, when Kylo undoes the zipper, it feels a little tighter than he remembers packing it. Brows furrowing, he shrugs off the thought and continues to open up the old suitcase.

Colours start pouring out in the form of clothing -- blues, greens, and _so_  much yellow. Is that much yellow _allowed_  in one wardrobe? Very quickly, it becomes clear that the bag, and its contents, do not belong to him. A pair of white, cotton, panties catches his eye and with a swig of his whiskey he shoves them back into the bag and zips it up. It’s the _alcohol_  that’s making his face so hot, the man tells himself as he frantically looks for the tag wrapped around the top handle. Instead of his own, neat scrawl, only the name ‘Rey’ and a phone number underneath are written down, by a four-year-old given the looks of it.

Without so much as a second thought, he jabs the number into his phone and, after not receiving an answer when he calls, he shoots a text message.

> **Unknown**
> 
> _Is this Rey? I have your bag with me. If you have a bag for a Kylo Ren, it’s mine._

What kind of _lunatic_  keeps a bag of knives? They’re in a duffle, rolled tight on top of two square piles of neatly folded, black clothes. _Probably to hide the blood_ , Rey thinks after she takes in the blades, arranged one-by-one, in sized order. A knock resounds from her bedroom door, something she’s unused to, seeing as she’s only been “moved in” to the apartment for a few hours.

“One second!” She calls out, hastily rolling the knives back up and shoving them into the bag and subsequently shoving the whole thing under her tiny, twin bed. Behind the wood, Finn muffles a reply and walks off. Something about dinner, which immediately catches Rey’s attention; _no one_  loves food more than Rey. While capable of little more than microwaving scrambled eggs and knowing that putting the milk in before the cereal is the _proper_  way, she can easily eat enough to sate a small village, or so Poe said the first time they met in person, roughly a year ago. Which is exactly what brings her to Seattle; a group of friends in need of a foodie to write for the culinary column in their small, but growing indie magazine _The Resistance_. Just shy of nineteen and with money saved up from various odd, and sometimes dangerous, jobs she managed to buy herself a ticket out of Arizona and to the rainy state of Washington.

And _of course_  the first time she flies, she has to end up accidentally switching bags with someone she can only assume is a serial killer. Rey’s phone dings mid-forkful of pasta into mouth, and after slurping up her alfredo ( _linguine_ ; alfredo is the sauce) noodles, she fishes out the old, cracked iPhone and squints at the message. With food on the brain, she hardly even considered checking the tags, and for a split moment she wonders how this stranger got her number.

> **Unknown**
> 
> _Yeah. I’d like to send them back, I’m just not sure if it’s legal. _s__ he replies.

They were underneath the plane, so it’s not like he could have gotten to them, but she still has to ponder the logistics when you’re not even supposed to bring a goddamn _nail-file_  on a plane.

> **Rey**
> 
> _Excuse me?_
> 
> **Unknown**  
>    
>  _I need that bag as soon as possible. I’ll pay for the shipping, if that’s the problem._

Wow he is dense. And desperate, if he’s going to double text her before she even has the chance to read the initial message.

> **Rey**
> 
> _There are a bunch of knives in your bag._

There’s a longer pause this time, though it’s filled with his little text bubble popping up over and over as he, assumedly, types out and deletes message after message making excuses that don’t sound totally creepy.

> **Unknown**
> 
> _They’re for my job, they’re my best set._

Okay, never mind. The guy clearly has no finesse, and basically just admitted to probably murdering people.

> **Unknown**
> 
> _Look, are you in Seattle? I live there, I can get them from you in a week. I’ll make due in the meantime, just don’t touch anything._

Like she would, she doesn’t want to be implicated.

Rey doesn’t reply immediately, mostly because she isn’t entirely sure how comfortable she is with this line of conversation. It might be a good idea for her to look through the contents of the stranger’s bag before making any sort of choice that involves meeting up in person. If worse comes to worse, she can simply have Poe or Finn accompany her, because while she likes to think that she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, the big city is a new and unfamiliar place. No doubt, people here are vastly different from those she lived with in the desert. When one spends a majority of their life having to look over their shoulder, the habit doesn’t shake.

Once again, the roll of knifes is unfurled and spread out in front of her on the floor. Tucking her legs underneath her thighs, she grabs for the first piece of clothing and examines it. Black suit. The second is a black suit, too. Underneath those, also black, she finds a silky, buttoned shirt and plain pants and aprons. Suddenly, the scimitar, boning, and French knives all make sense. A chef is, she’s learned, very protective over their knives, because a good set can last a lifetime. The worn handles tell her that Kylo Ren (familiar name) has had them for quite awhile, but the shiny, sharpened blades tell her that he takes good care of them. A quick Google search is all it takes for her to realise who she switched bags with, and Rey can’t help feeling a little ridiculous for not recognising his name as soon as she saw it.

> **Kylo Ren**
> 
> _You’re the head chef at Empire, right? When you get back, I’ll meet you there and we can trade._

Fair enough. Kylo groans, and sends a message with the address of his restaurant, just in case.

Empire isn’t actually _his_  restaurant, per se, but he does work there, under one Master Chef Snoke. When he was going through the culinary arts program, the man taught him everything he knew, trained Kylo specifically for the stress that comes with working at five-star restaurants with celebrity patronage. There was a time when he thought he might want to own his own hole-in-the-wall place, but the money he makes now is too good to pass up, and one doesn’t just _throw away_  an opportunity all but handed to him by one of the most accomplished people in their field.

The old man doesn’t travel much anymore, however, which is what leads Kylo to his current debacle. He flies to Denver often enough, always the first in line because it’s where his mother, a retired politician, lives. Dinner with the woman feels more like a chore than anything, but at least if he goes out of his way to sit with her for a few hours, she won’t try and drag along his useless father. Not that Han would want to see him, still ever resentful over the fact that his only son chose cooking over working in his shitty, little garage. _How dare he_ , right?

The past is the past, and as often as Kylo lingers in it, he tries to swallow it down as he gets to work stripping off his suit. Thankfully, he only wore it at the airport, so he can get away with wearing it at tomorrow’s conference before he has to go out and buy a new one. No way in hell is he going around in his chef’s uniform -- he’ll save that for when he’s inevitably forced to cook at a few of the local restaurants. Ever since the recreational use of weed was legalised in both Colorado and Washington, their industries have been booming. Particularly the food industries, to absolutely no one’s surprise. Fill a tortilla with ramen noodles and suddenly you have “gourmet” Mexican-Japanese fusion. Or maybe just the food of every stoner's dreams.

Within the span of that week, Kylo wastes thousands on new suits, hundreds at laundromats, and nearly nicks off the tip of his middle finger because apparently these entrepreneurial chefs don’t know when it’s time to sharpen a fucking knife. Not since college has he seen so many bent blades _at least_  in need of a straightening. All of those twenty-somethings looked at him like he was insane as he rifled through their drawers, muttering about how when he went to school, people went into debt with what they spent on their own sets of knives. Nowadays, kids don’t even _have_  to go to college in order to pretend like they know shit all about food. Maybe he’s being pretentious, but one has to earn the title of Chef, and it’s something that he likes to pride himself on.

\---

Empire is gaudy beyond anything Rey could have ever imagined. Even the photos she’s seen on the internet don’t quite capture the restaurant in all of it’s glory -- it’s _huge_ , with two stories and a balcony. Everything is black and slick, the lights almost too bright as they bounce off of the white, marble floor. Clearly, the interior design is shooting for opulence, and as much as it assaults her eyes, she has to admit that a dustball such as herself feels horribly out of place.

Sucking in a deep breath, Rey smooths her hands over her cream sweater, self-conscious as she fingers the hole in the knee of her brown leggings. Kylo told her to give the host her name, and they’d show her to a table. The entire walk towards her little booth near the kitchens, the brunette is subjected to the furrowed brows of the guests who can actually afford to eat here. Seriously, who comes into this kind of establishment dragging a ratty, old suitcase behind them? It’s impossible to be subtle about it, with the way the wheels bump and drag over the grooves of the tiled floor. Being able to sit is a relief, and Rey immediately kicks the damn bag underneath her glass table with a huff.

“Chef Ren says your meal will be complimentary tonight.” The woman, not much older than Rey, puts on a tight smile and pulls out her notepad. “So can I start you off with anything to drink?”

“Er, just a water. Please?” On the house, huh? Rey wonders if he would have been so generous if he knew that she’s here not only to return his bag, but to do a little investigative work as well. If she plays her cards right, she realised only after the stars in her eyes dimmed, she could get enough information out of this to write a piece on the chef _and_  his food. The latter being the most important, of course, because absolutely nothing can sour a good meal.

Or so she thinks, until a dark-haired man comes slamming out of the kitchen’s swinging door, bringing steam and all of the rich, deep smells of whatever’s cooking with him. There’s a wild look in his eyes as they shift and settle on her, and Rey immediately tenses up, pursing her lips.

“Are you Rey?” The man asks, jaw tight.

“Yes.” She all but squeaks in affirmation, trying to figure out just what she did wrong. Other than grab his bag, but that was a week ago and _completely_  accidental. All chefs have an attitude, but this feels like something else entirely.

“The bag?” He implores impatiently, stepping towards her table. It doesn’t take long before his long legs carry him there, looming over her where she sits. Chef Ren really could be some kind of serial killer.

“Here.” After collecting herself, Rey lets out a huff, leaning over so that her elbows rest upon the table as she kicks the bag out to him, unable to conceal the amused quirk of her lips as the corner of the case jams into his knee and forces him to keel over just a bit. “Oops.” There’s a half-hearted, not-really apologetic shrug as she plucks her menu up from the table and busies herself with reading over the various, expensive options. Lobster for upwards of five hundred dollars? Yeah, thank god this is on the house.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't beta'd. e u e;
> 
> Starts out with Rey's review, basically.

_You know what to expect when you walk into a restaurant like Empire; garish and modern to a fault. I was blinded by perfectly polished floors, and while cleanliness is always of the utmost importance when handling food, the atmosphere didn ’t strike me as conducive to a relaxing meal. Still, I tried to bear in mind that this isn’t my usual hole-in-the wall establishment. Homey isn’t what the decorators were going for here, and that may appeal to someone looking for night of excess (if you have a date with expensive taste, their lobster runs in price from fair to your month’s entire pay check)._

_Typically, my goal lies in one thing —  the meal. However, this day I had a chance to meet the head chef, one Kylo Ren. I wish I could type his name with fondness, but it’s difficult to feel partial towards a man who greets customers like burdens. True to his reputation, he’s an intense man, but not the level of intense that I’ve come to expect from most, if not all, in his profession. My meal would be on the house, but I suspect this was more out of obligation than kindness._

_I tried not to let this dampen my mood, and I’ve tried desperately not to allow it to bias my review on his food. So, I ordered the first thing I spotted on the menu (Chef Ren doesn’t strike me as a man with much patience, so I didn’t pour over the menu despite it’s one-page length)._

_The King salmon with lemon pepper and rosemary, parsnip purée and a side of black salt asparagus. It starts with a small (fair warning, everything served here comes in quantities of small and extra small; it’s like they’re serving elves) spinach salad, paired with fresh cut strawberries, walnuts, Gorgonzola, and a honey vinaigrette. A delicately sweet start to an ultimately savoury meal. The strawberries were perfectly bittersweet, juices brought out by the dressing, the walnuts all but melted in my mouth, and the cheese served as the salty touch. Chef Ren clearly understands the nature of balance within his dishes; it’s only too bad he doesn’t seem to understand the balance of a customer-chef relationship. That boorish attitude of his should have been left in the kitchen._

_My main course was served a time after the salad, giving my stomach time to absorb and settle. By the time my salmon was (unceremoniously) set in front of me, I was hungry again. I’d never had wild salmon before, and up until then I was under the impression that it would be the same as farm-raised; I thought the “wild” was tagged on simply as an excuse to charge more. I’m not afraid to admit when I am wrong, and I was. The only way I can think to describe the taste (other than mellow, brought to the surface by the sour lemon and piney rosemary) is more. . . Salmony. Which really, is a disservice to the way the fish fell apart as it hit my tongue. The purée was slightly sweet, with a hint garlic and parmigiano, crispy asparagus smoky and sharp. Next to Maz Kanata’s chicken and waffle breakfast, it’s the second best meal I’ve ever had. Empire’s reputation for quality food is clearly more than just a reputation._

_It’s the reputation of another that tarnished my experience. It pains me to think that I should advise anyone against such heavenly food. When a Chef has such a rotten attitude that dealing with his - Kylo Ren’s - displaced anger is enough to dissuade me from dessert, there’s a problem. Once I was under the impression that nothing can ruin a perfectly good meal (I’m a strong proponent that food makes everyone happy), but for the second time that night I was proven wrong. Empire’s food has earned its five stars, but the service is the worst I’ve ever experienced. Would I recommend wasting your money on elf-sized portions and a monster in the kitchen? Absolutely not; zero stars._

__\---__

Kylo slams his metal meat mallet down, the sharp teeth biting into a slab of pork. When he spotted Rey’s little notebook and the way her hand scribbled away, he thought she was some -- some _kid_  taking notes for some class. Reviewers have notoriously sanctimonious personalities, love announcing themselves upon arrival; he could have attempted to fake a smile for that. Rather, he found himself ruffled to return to a kitchen in chaos and Hux changing everything around as if Kylo were never coming back (as the man does every time he’s away on business). All without his knife set, of which he has multiple, but he has a _favourite_  set, the Kramers. 

With a growl that starts low in his throat and rips through his lips, the man lifts the mallet and then brings it down again. And again . . . And _again_. Over and over, as the sous chefs nearby all skitter to the other side of the vast kitchen with wary looks. Dealing with Hux’s pretentious nature is far preferable to dealing with Ren’s unabated anger.

This is what Snoke was so intent on him seeing when he came in; a little article, the page cut out and perfectly laminated _just_  for Kylo’s convenience. _Rey Doe_  the name underneath reads. Of course he remembers the girl, who stormed out of the restaurant after giving him a piece of her mind. He’s rude and arrogant, she asked _hasn’t your mother ever taught you any manners?_ and then continued to list off a tirade of adjectives, all with the same meaning. In short, he’s an asshole. Which is exactly why he’s in a profession with little to no customer contact. At least, that was the way it was meant to be; himself back in the kitchen with his staff out front, serving up homey, traditional dishes all hand-crafted by Chef _Solo_ , not Ren.

Working for the Chef he’d always looked up to was an infinitely smarter decision. Here at Empire there is no risk of flopping; it’s a chance for Kylo to make something of himself, be known by his _own_  success rather than his parentage. Changing his name felt like a rebirth, a chance to make himself into someone new, to distinguish himself from everyone else in his field. The restaurant might not be _his_ , but it will be when Snoke kicks the bucket. Or, it’ll go to Hux; the cutthroat competition that sparks between the two men day after day is, undoubtedly, the main cause of tension in the kitchen.

“When you’re finished putting holes in that tenderloin,” said ginger shoulders into the kitchen with that ever-present distasteful sneer of his, “Chef would like to have a word.” Kylo expected as much, but that doesn’t stop the blood from draining from his already pallid face. When it comes to Snoke, no news is the best kind of news; one is only ever summoned for business or to have their ass chewed out. This isn’t going to be the former. It doesn’t help that Hux looks irritatingly smug today, more so than usual if possible (which, _today_  it is).

\---

Rey never gave Chef Ren the chance to return her bag, which might be in part why she wrote such a scathing review against him. For a girl raised in what could best be described as the slums of Arizona, it takes a lot to phase her, to push her to the point of being so angry that she walks out. _On a meal_. She’d only just been brought her dessert (she’ll never forget that spongy and delicate slice of French cheesecake, the way the raspberries placed oh-so-precisely on top enticed her with how perfectly red and plump they looked) when the man made some snide comment about how the contents of his bag appeared dishevelled. Granted he didn’t realise that he was being interviewed, but she was glad to have seen his true colours.

The only thing she has to thank Kylo for is how undeniably successful the article turns out to be. Poe had initially been worried about publishing the article because her reviews are typically generous and positive, but it would seem people are more attracted to the negative. After their first sales quota came in, they stopped the presses (figuratively) and went day drinking which, after many hours, turned into night drinking. They even huddled Rey in, spotted for her in riposte to her being a just a couple years short of the drinking age.

That night, Rose dumps her onto her tiny mattress, where the room sways. This feeling is supposed to make her sick, but it never has, not even the first time she’d had enough alcohol in her veins to make her dizzy. Instead she lies on her back and gives into the heaviness of her lids. Rey imagines an ocean, like Jetty Island, where she rocks in tandem with the waves. When she was a child and the memory of her parents leaving kept her up at night, she _always_  imagined being swept up in the comforting arms of the sea despite never having seen it. Finn took her to the beach the day following her arrival for her birthday (March 10th, her file says), but the spring chill made it too cold for Rey to so much as dip her toes into the water.

The thing about alcohol is that it keeps the dreams at bay, and although Rey isn't much of a drinker it's a welcome reprieve from reliving those painful memories. Parents leaving, asphalt spitting, sun blistering. Sometimes they turn around, but their faces are featureless and flesh-coloured, like something out of a nightmare — the nightmare of a little girl left behind.

There's a deep, sharp pounding behind Rey's eyes as the sun rises outside of her window the next morning. Sheer curtains do nothing to block out its light and for a moment she regrets not picking out something darker; they're cream, with a floral pattern stitched into them, and while she'd initially wanted to bring more light into the room she finds herself lamenting the decision. After what feels like an hour, it becomes clear that sleep is determined to elude her this morning, and so the young woman relents. The day clothes she fell asleep in are peeled off right there in bed, down to her underwear, before she shuffles over to her dresser. Because her bag was never actually returned, Rose was kind enough to lend her a few things.

An old t-shirt pulled over her head and a pair of sweats with the drawstring pulled tight around her hips sheathing her knobby legs, she wanders out of her bedroom. Rey’s cell phone, an older Android model with a cracked screen and a goldenrod case that used to be bright yellow, sits on the kitchen counter. Just beyond the bar stands the girl whose clothes she’s borrowed (she insists on returning them, because she’ll have enough to rebuild her meager wardrobe after she gets paid for this column), likely only awake because she was their designated driver the night before.

“It’s been vibrating like crazy.” Rose comments as Rey reaches for the device, but just as she clicks it on, the screen goes black. _Dead_. There’s an outlet near the counter, so she plugs in the charger and waits. “Coffee?” The other girl quirks a brow and offers a steaming mug.

“And Tylenol.” Rey groans as she stretches for it and immediately brings the drink to her lips, shuddering as the warmth of the first sip pools in her empty stomach. It gurgles in want, but she ignores it for the time being, as a small bottle is rolled across the counter in her direction. Catching it, she struggles to pop off the child-safety lid with a muttered “thanks” and takes two. _No_ , three.

“Paige said that she’ll be over with breakfast soon.” Rose continues with something that makes Rey perk up from here she’s leaned over, forehead pressed against the cool counter top, “Maz’s.”

Written into the article, she alludes to the restaurant (a diner, really), mentioning her favourite meal. Perfectly tender, delicately crispy chicken strips paired with a _massive_  Belgium waffle that’s browned on the outside, but fluffy on the inside. The best part? The maple syrup is _actual_ maple syrup, not the corn-syrup imitation. A perfect hangover cure, no doubt.

By the time Paige arrives, two bags stuffed with takeout boxes hanging from the crooks of her elbows, Finn and Poe are up and guzzling down their second cups of coffee. Rey digs into her food with the fervour of a starved animal, all the while insisting that the Tico sisters are literal _angels_. At some point, her phone turns back on, buzzing insistently with a barrage of forgotten notifications. Huffing, she picks it up with sticky fingers and squints to read over the various Twitter and Instagram likes. Licking off her fingers, she swipes them away, only to stop when she sees at least five missed calls, but nothing left in her voicemail’s inbox. Only one text message.

> **Kylo Ren**
> 
> _Call me._

From Kylo Ren. Although, his contact name has since been changed to a series of crude emojis in her phone.

\---

Snoke is far from happy with him, and Kylo knows that he needs to find a way to redeem himself in lieu of _The Resistance’s_  review. It’s not that business at the restaurant has faltered, not over the course of a few days, but people are _talking_. Being in the view of the public eye isn’t something he’s unused to, but he’s never been particularly amiable. The chef’s inability to put on a friendly persona becomes painfully clear within the comments following the online rendition of the article; there are _forums_  referring back to Rey’s scorching review of not his food, but his mannerisms. What he reads is nothing he hasn’t _heard_  before; the difference is that now people are agreeing in masses. Who wants to deal with a monster?

So he does what any sane man would do and proceeds to call Rey. Five times. When she doesn’t pick up, he spends hours agonising over what he could possibly say. He ends up penning a two-word text and leaving it at that. Either she’ll call, or she won’t.

> **Rey**
> 
> _Why?_

Kylo receives a response the following afternoon. Only a text, but it’s a start.

> **Kylo Ren**
> 
> _I’d like to meet with you again._
> 
> _I’d like to apologise._
> 
> _I still have your bag._

The third statement seems to catch her attention, and he watches with bated breath as the little chat bubble pops up. She’s typing.

> **Rey**
> 
> _Fine. But don’t expect me to retract my article._

That’s exactly what he _wants_ , but it’s clear that she’s a stubborn little thing in need of some convincing.

> **Kylo Ren**
> 
> _Where can we meet? When?_
> 
> **Rey**
> 
> _Tomorrow. Lunch. A café  called Endor._

Immediately, he recognises the name. Throughout the night he browsed _The Resistance’s_  website, reading through as many of her articles as he could until his eyes grew heavy and sore. Rey clearly has a deep love of the culinary arts, knows exactly what she’s talking about when it comes to taste and balance. Be it simple comfort food, or delicately complicated dishes, she has _passion_  and in spite of the fact that she came after him in her most recent exposé, he finds her intriguing. Kylo imagines she’s an excellent chef of her own making.

> **Kylo Ren**
> 
> _I’ll see you then._

Pinching out a sigh, he sends his final message. If he can redeem himself in her eyes, then perhaps he can regain Snoke’s favour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on Twitter @nsfwars (I keep changing my username lol).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a thousand years and I switch pseuds I'm so sorry. Enjoy. 🖤
> 
> I have to thank AlbaStarGazer for being the one to encourage me to continue and being my beta. This fic would have been left in limbo without her kind words.

The wicker chair creaks under Kylo’s weight as he watches the door to Endor open and close; the little brass bells hanging just above the frame chime out every time a new customer saunters in. Ferns drape over the sides of their pots, grappled to the ceiling in varying lengths, and just outside the pristine glass windows are bushels of colourful flowers. There’s almost no reason for the warm, dim lamps nestled between the plants floating from the beams above head, not with the way the sunny cafe is flooded with natural light.

Each time a new patron _isn’t_ Rey, he feels a prickle of annoyance. She's late, by fifteen minutes, and he’s close to calling it quits and leaving. The only thing that’s keeping him glued to his chair is the knowledge that if he doesn’t get anything out of this meeting, he’s going to fall from Chef Snoke’s favour more than he already has.

Twenty minutes later, on the dot (as if she _meant_ to make him wait, he thinks bitterly), a scrawny brunette in a cozy, oversized sweater walks through the door. Rey looks around for a moment, until her head swivels in his direction and she — well, she doesn’t smile. Kylo finds he can’t quite read her expression, so he regards her with a stiff nod and she takes that as her invitation to walk over. Her hazel eyes land on the old suitcase tucked underneath the table, and her stride becomes a little quicker.

“You’re late.” Is how the Chef chooses to greet the young woman, lips set into a tight line.

“You’re the one so desperate for my company.” Rey rolls her eyes and reaches under the table to pull her suitcase over to her side. _Good_ , now she can return Rose’s clothes. Kylo’s jaw trembles as he looks her over, seems to choose his next words carefully.

“I read your article.” He says slowly, to which Rey gives him a look that says _so what_ , pushing him to go on. “I was . . . Under a lot of stress that day.” Kylo then offers, lamely.

Rey can’t help the audacious laugh that escapes her lips as she grabs for her menu and hides behind it. Clearly, he doesn’t expect her to believe him, given the yielding expression that takes over his face, so much different than those hardened eyes and furrowed brows. For a split second, he looks so _young_.

“That’s too bad.” The young woman hums, not really sympathetic. If anything, Rey is only here purely out of curiosity, disinterested in any explanations he might have for his behaviour. It happened, she’s said her piece, and now he’ll have to deal with the backlash.

“Look, let me cook for you again. Stay until dessert this time.” Kylo entreats her, though doesn’t receive an answer right away when a server comes up to the table with an order pad in hand. Rey orders a hazelnut boba tea and a lemon pastry, whereas the chef sticks to a simple black coffee. As soon as the woman turns away, he turns his expectant gaze back to Rey.

“No, thanks.” Declining is painful, because she loves _nothing_ more than free food. At least, she’s assuming that his offer is free, considering he’s vying for a second interview. Mentioning the dessert that she was so cruelly deprived of last time is just low.

“Why not?” Kylo challenges, lip curling as some other server skirts by and places his coffee in the middle of the table. “You liked my cooking. Or do I need to quote your article?” Reaching out, he grabs for his ceramic mug. Nice touch. Apparently, this place hand brews each cup; he hasn’t seen any coffee carafes walking around.

“I did,” Rey admits begrudgingly, “but I have a problem with your attitude.” And she’d much rather eat McDonald’s with a handful of friends than share a meal with a monster. Which is, incidentally, what she’s helpfully reminded she’s doing the moment the tea and glaze-coated pastry are set in front of her. Wiggling her fingers, she reaches out and instantly breaks it in half — some of the flakes stick to her skin, so she brings up her hand and licks.

Kylo looks unamused as he stares at her, taking a long sip from his steaming mug. Rey doesn’t understand how he can drink the stuff black, preferring her joe more milk and syrup than actual coffee. Unless she’s hung over, of course. Maybe that’s the case, would certainly explain the sunglasses perched upon the crooked bridge of his nose.

“Why does my attitude matter if I can cook?” The chef asks incredulously.

“Because, your _attitude_ ruined my meal, and I can’t forgive you for that.” Rey huffs around a mouthful of lemony goodness. Ben shifts in his seat, glowering as the young woman licks each one of her sugar-coated fingers clean with a satisfied groan. Obviously, he isn’t in any danger of ruining _this_ meal for her.

“Well, I need you — ” he's cut off right there by Rey noisily sucking her tea through her state, part irate and part astonished that she's nearly finished it so quickly.

“You _need_ me?” She grins and it's blinding. Her cheeks dimple as she flashes two rows of teeth, as straight as a military cemetery and pearly white. Despite everything, Kylo feels his cheeks grow warm.

“You didn't let me finish!” He accuses, about to reel back when Rey unceremoniously reaches across the table and grabs for his glasses. They get about halfway down his too-big nose before he leans away.

“Why do you need those on inside? I'd rather look at you in the eyes.” A strange and sudden change in subject, which the man is thankful for.

“Sun's in my eyes.” He grumbles, taking a hasty sip of his coffee. Truth be told, alcoholism is rampant among those in his profession, especially in a kitchen as cut-throat as Empire's. So, maybe he'd had a little too much to drink while scrolling through the comments on her article for the hundredth time last night. Is that a crime?

“Sun's on the other side of the building.” Rey oh-so helpfully points out. Kylo's jaw tightens.

“Hungover.” He finally admits. “Are you gonna write about that, too?”

“No. I'm not writing anything about meeting you today.” Shrugging, the girl finishes off her pastry, licking the remnants from her lips. Each sweep of her tongue is slow, precise. Something comes over the Chef (temporary insanity, probably), and he reaches out, using his thumb to brush a crumb from the apple of Rey's cheek. Messy eater. Not cute at all.

Kylo scoffs and pulls back; Rey looks away and begins noisily sipping at her practically empty drink again. _Awkward_.

“I can get you a sit down with Chef Hux.” The man clears his throat for a second time, wondering how the hell he's going to convince his co-chef to do anything for him. Ever since Rey’s article came out, he’s been on cloud nine. “Or, Master Chef Snoke?” The name brings out a mixed reaction from her; awe and trepidation.

“Really?” She asks, slowly.

“He’s my boss, but I’m sure you knew that, Miss Reporter.” Kylo hums, amused.

\---

“I agreed to a sit down with Chef Snoke.” Rey tells Poe, now back at their base of operations. It’s a small, leased out building with a back room of archives and a few desks with laptops and computers of varying makes and models. A hodgepodge of ancient and modern technology. The dusty windows face an old street, and there’s a print shop conveniently next door willing to help them distribute their small, weekly magazine. Their biggest audience tends to be college kids, to no surprise.

“For what? We’re not taking down your article, it did _amazing_.” Rey’s boss and editor inquires.

“A possible addendum. I was careful not to promise anything more.” She and Kylo parted ways soon after that, although he’d been (surprisingly) kind enough to offer her a ride home. Ultimately, she declined, knowing that the walk to Resistance’s base of operations wasn’t too much of a stretch.

“When is it?” Poe asks, scratching at the stubble along his cheeks, as if he’s thinking hard. He’s not.

“The ninth. Next week.” Rey already has it scrawled in her little planner (she remembers how apprehensive Kylo looked when she pulled it out of her bag). Although Chef Snoke manages more than he cooks these days, his name is one that anyone deeply involved in the culinary community has heard.

“Okay. See how it goes.” Poe nods, pleased.

“You want anyone to go with you? I heard the guy’s a creep.” Finn interjects from his station across the room. A thrift store computer desk surrounded by a low wall, enough that his head is poking out from over the top.

“Where’d you hear that?” Rey spins to look at him, snorting.

“Internet.” Finn offers with a shrug. The guy is always lurking around social media and Chan boards.

“I’m a big girl; I can take care of myself.” Sticking out her tongue, Rey goes back to her little cubicle and plants herself into her rickety computer chair. It squeaks under her weight. She reaches out, rolling her shoulders and crossing her fingers to crack them in preparation to work on her next article — this one reviewing a food truck that specialises in seafood and frequents the area around Pike Place. Finn groans in disgust at the sound of her knuckles from the other side of the room, she grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on twitter @nsfwars.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing Snoke can you tell?

“This dinner is off the record.” Says an old man, half of his wrinkled, ashen face disfigured by a Glasglow smile. It’s said that Chef Snoke acquired the injury in some freak accident involving a butchery and a meat hook, but no one really knows for sure. Rey is burning with curiosity about the truth, but already senses that asking isn’t going to get her an answer.

For fifteen minutes, she’s been waiting in a private room on the second floor of Empire, twiddling her thumbs in silence ever since Kylo brought her an ice water. Soda isn’t her favourite, and she wasn’t about to go through the humiliation of having the older man ID and ultimately deny her if she asked for a glass of wine. The lighting is low, almost ominous as the dark furnishings swallow it up, a stark difference from the first floor, where everything is bright and burning. One gets the sense that the upstairs is used mainly for evening entertainment, or special guests. Rey is trying to play the part, outfitted in a simple, cream-coloured dress. It has a sheer outer layer, spotted with peach sakura flowers, reaches just above her knees. Jessika was kind enough to lend her a pair of heels that match, though they make her feel obscenely tall.

“Of course.” Rey offers a smile and flips her little notebook shut, trying not to let dismay leak into her voice. When Kylo said he could her her a sit-down with his boss, she thought that an interview would be part of the deal, but she supposes she should be thankful for the experience regardless. Not many can say they’ve eaten dinner with Chef Snoke, especially now that he seems intent on avoiding the public eye. Given his age, it’s hard to blame him. Even moving to sit down in his chair seems to be a struggle, the subtle flash of pain across his marred face evident to a reporter’s keen eye.

“I’ve already put our order in to my chefs, you don’t need that.” Chef Snoke drawls as Rey lifts her menu up, stifling her attempt to hide behind the laminated paper to escape the sudden tenseness brought into the room upon his arrival. There’s something about the man’s  _ aura _ that doesn’t sit well with her, makes her stomach churn uncomfortably. His statement doesn’t help.

“Right, okay.” This time around, it's a little more difficult to force her smile.

“That was an interesting article, you wrote about my employee.” He doesn't beat around the bush, does he? Rey finds it  _ odd _ that he also doesn't seem to name his chefs, as if they're only pawns in his kitchen, and something about that makes Rey's skin crawl. It reminds her of Unkar Plutt, the tyrant over the group home where she'd grown up. Moving away from him had been the best choice she's ever made.

“Well,” she swallows down the bitter lump forming in the back of her throat, “he was incredibly rude.”

“Was he.” The man considers thoughtfully, though doesn’t object.

“Practically threw my food at me. It’s a good thing he isn’t a server.” Rey huffs, determined to stand her ground no matter who it is she’s up against. Those days spent letting people trample over her are finished.

“That’s right, he isn’t a server. I’d say that makes your little column biased.” Snoke’s even, yet condescending tone infuriates he, makes her face grow red with unexpected anger. However, before she can retort, the door to their private room swings open, and Kylo shoulders inside with two platters delicately balanced upon each hand.

_ Food _ . The thought alone already has Rey salivating, despite not knowing what was ordered for her.

“Floor’s busy.” The younger chef explains, after a sharp look from his mentor, placing the plates onto the table. This time around, he’s much more considerate.

A salad to start, decorated with green apples, walnuts, and a Roquefort dressing. Rey digs in with little to no finesse, clearly unversed in proper table manners. The fork she grabs probably isn’t the salad fork, and given the look she receives from her host, she must look like an animal.  _ Oops _ , since she doesn’t have her notepad out, she almost forgot that she’s basically in the presence of royalty. Inhibitions tend to fly out the window when food is involved, but Rey quickly reevaluates herself — sits up straighter, uses her napkin to dab a little dressing from her lips, and decides to eat a little slower.

Kylo has already left the room, not that she’d been paying him any mind.

“How long have you been interested in then culinary arts, Miss..?” Chef Snoke doesn’t sound overly enthused.

“Oh, uhm . . .” Rey forces herself to swallow, suddenly feeling sheepish. “A couple of years. I didn’t have much food growing up, so.” So what? All she can do is shrug. Plutt kept his kids on a steady diet of TV dinners and tasteless gruel; it wasn’t until the community college in the town over added a culinary program that she started experimenting with new tastes. They’d have competitions, donate meals, cook for the underprivileged.

“So, you don’t have any sort of real experience.” The chef says, and Rey balks at the bluntness of his statement. Were her plate not already cleared (in her defence, the salad wasn’t much), she’d likely be choking on her food.

“I think the only experience I  _ need _ is having functioning taste buds.” Did he even read her article? It was  _ well-written _ . While she may not be able to afford culinary classes, nor is she any kind of master chef, she loves food. Isn’t that enough?

“I'd hardly consider you qualified if you think diner food deserves five stars,  _ girl _ .” He hisses the last part, and it makes Rey's hair stand on end. But she's a stubborn thing, has a retort on the tip of her tongue, ready to lash out until they're interrupted by Kylo for the second time.

He has a tray with him, so that he can pick up their empty plates (well,  _ her _ empty plate, since Snoke hadn't touched his) and replace them with new ones. Steak with black garlic, rosemary, and hand-churned butter, a few fat shrimp nestled up beside it, a handful of pearl potatoes and onions. Rey wants nothing more to dig in, but is distracted when Chef Snoke rises from his seat and begins to depart from the table. Wide-eyed, her gaze follows him as he grabs for a cane she neglected to notice earlier before limping passed Kylo.

“If my article was so small, why bother reading it in the first place?” She can't him go without saying her piece, feels pretty proud of herself when he pauses.

“Package my leftovers for my dogs.” Snoke completely ignores her in favour of Kylo, who's been tight-jawed and watching the entire time. All he can do is nod and let the old man go, following suit with his tray of dishes.

Rey hasn't even gotten to the main course yet and her appetite has already disappeared. Empire is cursed, she decides as she pushes her potatoes and onions around the plate until the door opens again and Kylo slips inside without a word. He seems different in Snoke's presence — quiet, subservient, akin to a neutered dog. Across the table, he wordlessly begins to box up his boss’ untouched plate, and she wonders if he's the one who put all of the work into cooking. The presentation was beautiful, bright green sprigs of rosemary garnishing the plate, everything perfectly proportioned. Even the shrimp had been set in a neat little row.

“Are you — Are you  _ crying _ ?” Kylo asks suddenly. Rey snaps back to reality, realising that she is, indeed, crying over a plate of extremely expensive surf and turf.

“No!” Rey squawks immediately, reaching up to scrub at her eye. “It’s just the onions. Too many onions.” She sniffs, now trying to hide her face.

“Want me to box that for you?” Kylo asks after a moment, the softness in his tone surprising her. He probably just feels  _ sorry _ for the poor little girl. Jerk.

“Yes . . .” Rey nods, teeth digging into her bottom lip. Waste not, want not.

Upon returning, the chef has another box in hand. He grabs for Rey's plate, carefully trying to dump its contents into the container, all of his garnishing work inevitably going to shit. A nearly two-hundred dollar meal destined to be tossed in a fucking microwave. It would irritate him more if he didn't feel like this nightmare of a meeting was his fault. He could tell how uncomfortable the girl was the whole time, made silent excuses to intervene so that she'd catch a break because he  _ knows _ how intense Snoke's presence can be.  Strong-willed as he can tell Rey is, his boss has a way of making ill at ease. He's always told himself that it must come with the burden of years on the job, but the image of the reporter with tears staining her freckled cheeks makes him wonder if the man is just cruel.

What is it about Rey that continually turns his world upside down? Kylo shakes the thoughts away, decides it's Chef Snoke's age and the pain in his back that must have factored in to his particularly sour mood tonight.

“Wait here.” He tells Rey, briskly leaving the girl to wonder if he's going to bring by the check because there's no way in heaven or hell she can afford this food. Dining and dashing comes to mind, but she'd rather word not get around for the sake of future interviews . . . Though she can't help watering the seeds of self-doubt that Snoke has planted within her.

Kylo return with keys in hand rather than a receipt book, expression unreadable as he grabs Rey’s leftovers and motions for her to follow him. Before she has the chance to object, he turns away, and she has to scramble to keep up with his long, brisk strides. Even in heels, she manages to be shorter than him, which is funny because she’s not a particularly short girl, has about a foot on Rose. Only when they’re outside does he slow down enough so that she can stick to his side, even waiting a minute for her to pull her cardigan over her shoulders. Inside, the restaurant has been perfectly warm, but the ocean air on a spring evening still makes Rey shiver. It’s not the kind of thing one gets used to after only a month.

The wet pavement looks like slick oil underneath the neon lights of the strip, not raining but still misting as they make their way to the nearest parking garage. Rey gets the feeling that Kylo truly isn’t a talkative guy, always bristled up like some kind of over-sized porcupine; it’s almost endearing, but then again maybe she’s delirious after her little sob fest (okay, so she hadn't been  _ sobbing _ , but she let someone see her cry and she can’t help feeling the shame creep under her skin).

“You drive a  _ Tesla _ ?” She probably shouldn’t be so surprised.

“Mm,” Kylo nods, pulling open the door for her, “you shouldn’t have to pay for an Uber when I’m getting off anyways.” That’s a lie, though Rey doesn’t have to know it. Phasma is more than capable of taking over his half of the kitchen for a few hours, and it’s not like Snoke can be anymore displeased with him than he already is.

Once his passenger is inside, he rounds the vehicle and slides into the driver's seat, turning the car on and smoothly backing out. Kylo Ren is nothing, if not a good driver. Comes with having a father who raced for a living; he’s been behind the wheel ever since he was tall enough to reach the pedals (fairly young, given how quickly he grew). There was a time when he might have wanted to follow in Han’s footsteps, become a NASCAR driver, but that was a long time ago. Passions change, especially when the one who nurtured that passion decides to start up and disappearing for weeks, even months at a time.

Rey is ecstatic enough to be in such a beautiful car, hands reaching out to smooth over the dash, the door, bottom wiggling in the comfortable,  _ heated _ seat. It still  _ smells _ new, like leather.

Kylo watches her out of the corner of his eye, noting the way the city lights accentuate her angular features. Despite all of the girl’s softness, there’s a strength in that sharp jaw and those high cheekbones that he can appreciate. Purely from an aesthetic standpoint, of course. She rattles off an address, he plugs it into his phone when they reach a red light. A ways down the street, he catches sight of an all-too-familiar pair of golden arches that makes him unexpectedly swerve into the right turning lane. He doesn’t know what the hell’s come over him as he pulls into the drive thru.

“What?” Apparently, neither does Rey.

“I made you miss dessert twice.” The chef reasons, motioning towards the menu. “So, McFlurry?” He offers with a scoff. It takes a moment, but he can visibly see the gears in Rey’s mind begin to turn.

“Oreo.” For the first time, he sees those lips curl up into a full, toothy grin, those hazel eyes sparkling iridescently as they reflect the light of the burgers-and-fries menu.

“Two oreos then.” Kylo nods, and pulls up just enough to spout off their order. It doesn’t take long before Rey’s hands are curled around her cold treat, thanking her chauffeur with a laugh that sounds as giddy as a schoolgirl. Although he’ll never admit it aloud, even he has nights where all he wants is some shitty soft serve ice cream with stale cookies and cream bits.

“Hey, before you pull out, can you just hold yours next to mine?” The young woman pipes up, and he decides to humour her for the moment. Rey pulls out her phone and snaps a picture, which Kylo thinks he should have expected.

The little walk-up where Rey lives isn’t in the nicest part of town. She points out her window and the lights are still on, says that her two roommates must be waiting for her to come home. Kylo wonders what that’s like, has a hard time imagining living in such a small space with so many people crammed in there. His flat is expansive and modern, arguably too big for just one person with no pets, nor a roommate to welcome him home after a long day spent yelling across a kitchen.

“Thanks.” Rey says as she’s pushing open the car door and climbing out, leftovers and empty McFlurry cup in hand.

“Yeah.” Kylo shrugs, swallowing thickly as he tries and fails not to stare at her for the hundredth time that night. He isn’t entirely sure what happened. A few days ago he was determined to hate her.

“Maybe next time I’ll actually get to finish my dinner.” Rey laughs, and his chest seizes at the possibility of another chance.

“Third time’s a charm.” He mutters, but she hears and nods in agreement.

“I’ll see you later.” Kylo nods, too, and watches her as she shuts the car door and jogs up to her door. He remains idling long enough to make sure she gets safely inside, and then for a few moments longer, watching the lights behind the curtained window shift from the movements inside the apartment.

When he finally pulls off, he realises he’s left his own dessert to melt in the console cup holder. If there’s a next time, perhaps they can actually eat together. Not just coffee — a real meal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On twitter @nsfwars


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;3

Takodana has a full house when Kylo decides it’s where he’ll spend his lunch. Normally, he’s not used to having to wait for a table, but he already _knows_ Maz and his name holds no sway with her. The old woman would sooner seat Han than himself. Thus, he ends up hunched over a beeper until it’s flashing in his hands and the hostess _finally_ shows him to a booth. She places a set of wrapped silverware and a menu in front of him, and he flicks a few stray crumbs across the table and onto the floor.

This place isn’t anything special; Kylo can’t even begin to imagine why or how Rey gave it such an outstanding review. The inside is fashioned as a typical diner — sticky booth seats, tables old and stained, lights far too bright. Even the coffee is mediocre. Not _bad_ , but certainly nothing to write home about.

Whenever he and his parents would travel through the Seattle area, they’d always drop by. He remembers being the rambunctious kid bouncing in the booth across from his parents who all but begged him to sit down and behave. The food had always been good, at least for a child with a pallet that hadn’t developed much beyond french fries and chicken tenders.

Kylo orders the chicken and waffles.

When his plate arrives, it clearly wasn’t put together with presentation in mind. A crispy Belgian waffle topped with a four chicken tenders, sprinkled with bacon bits, and accompanied by a scoop of butter and a serving of warmed maple syrup. Vaguely, he recalls her article ranting and raving about how the latter is _the real deal_ , not just corn syrup and sugar. Without thinking, he snaps a picture and immediately sends it to Rey. Kylo has no idea what came over him in those thirty seconds, but the moment he registers what he’s done he internally begins to panic.

They aren’t friends, not even acquaintances. All he’s done is put Rey through not one, but _two_ shitty dinners, the most recent of which left her in tears. Buying her dessert from _McDonald’s_ once doesn’t make them anything.

A ping sounds from his phone as it vibrates loudly against the table. She’s replied with a series of thumbs up and heart-eyes emojis and he’s normally irritated by this kind of nonsense, but in the moment he can only find it endearing.

> **Kylo Ren**
> 
> _I was driving by._

Bullshit, Takodana is completely out of his way, and Rey knows this. Had he been thinking of her? It’s been weeks since the night he drove her home.

> **Rey**
> 
> _Pretty amazing, right?_

Kylo takes his first bite considers as he chews, and then takes a few more.

> **Kylo Ren**
> 
> _It’s edible._
> 
> **Rey**
> 
> _Oh, come on._

He doesn’t know what to say, until she sends a second message.

> **Rey**
> 
> _You should have invited me._
> 
> **Kylo Ren**
> 
> _Sorry._

_Sorry_? Rey groans, doesn’t know why the response makes her feel so embarrassed, like she shouldn’t have suggested such a ridiculous thing in the first place. Maybe he only sent her a picture to rub it in her face. _Ha ha, your article didn’t stop people from eating at my restaurant, now I’m here at your favorite place and it’s just_ edible.

> **Kylo Ren**
> 
> _Next time?_
> 
> **Rey**
> 
> _Sounds fun. :)_

The little smiley face makes his heart stutter and Kylo very quickly realises that _this_ is a bad idea. Making nice with Rey, getting to know her, eating with her. His days consist of waking up, watering down his coffee with a shot of whatever liquor is nearby (occasionally followed by a thin line of coke from the meager stash he keeps in his junk drawer on the days when he can hardly open his eyes), going to work, coming home, and drinking until he inevitably passes out. Wash, rinse, repeat. There’s no room for distractions.

And yet, his determination to close himself off from others doesn’t stop him from feeling that aching hollowness every single night he returns to his flat. Kylo is always reminded of his teenage years, coming home to an empty manor, a latchkey kid with an absent father, until he left for college. Even then, he didn’t have a roommate; never wanted one. Being alone is easier.

That night he settles onto his couch, the television turned on if only to cut through the deafening silence of an empty house, whiskey in hand. It’s impossible to remember the last time he could sleep (or wake up, for that matter) without the aid of alcohol. His mother would say that Han’s bad habits have rubbed off on him, but conveniently forgets that she used to consume nearly an entire bottle of wine every evening. The environment he’d grown up in had never been particularly nurturing, something Leia is desperately trying to make up for now, but he still hasn’t spoken to his father since their falling out before he moved out.

At some point, his glass becomes a shattered mess against the wall directly next to his flat screen. Kylo cradles his head in his hands. Sometimes he really does feel like a monster; angry and unwanted until it’s too late to fix what feels like can never be fixed.

> **Rey**
> 
> _There’s this Italian place I’m going to try tonight, if you wanna come with._

Kylo’s phone dings days later, but he’s in the kitchen and unable to answer for several hours. He internally curses himself when he sees it.

> **Kylo Ren**
> 
> _Am I too late?_
> 
> **Rey**
> 
> _Almost. Meet me at Castilon. Already have a table._

It’s difficult to tell if she’s annoyed or not, but he can’t bring himself to think on it. Instead, he hands his cleaning duties off to the sous chefs and rushes out of Empire. By the time he pulls up to the sea food themed restaurant it’s been almost twenty minutes. How long has she been waiting? Kylo doesn’t even realise he’s still in uniform, apron and all, until he’s seated across from Rey, who gives him a once-over before smothering a giggle into her palm.

“Nice of you to show up.” She teases, smile soft and cheeks pinkened.

“I didn’t see your text, I was working.” The chef explains, shifting uncomfortably as he tries to relax after speeding all the way here. It’s late, and not very busy. The interior of the restaurant is lit with warm, yellowed lamps dangling from the ceiling. It makes him feel sleepy, a slow breath escaping him as he looks over Rey. She’s in a little, blue dress with a dark cardigan. Modest, but still hugs her slim body in ways that make him feel hot under the collar. A tiny part of him can’t help thinking she would look even better with a little more meat on her bones. For someone who claims to love food, she’s so _skinny._

“It’s alright. I waited.” There’s a shift in her expression that he can’t quite make out, at the mention of _waiting._

“Thank you.” He nods and picks up his menu. It’s short; one page of simple dishes mostly consisting of pasta. He orders a slow roasted salmon seasoned with citrus and bay leaf atop a bed of buttered orzo, and Rey digs into her shrimp with spicy tomato sauce the moment it’s set in front of her. Kylo should find her lack of manners repulsive, but she _waited_ for him, and the way she neglects to notice the red sauce on her cheek is kind of . . . cute.

“Shouldn’t you try to _savour_ your meal if you’re going to write about it?” The man inquires, to which Rey’s cheeks go an even darker shade than they had earlier. Scoffing, she sits up a little straighter, tries to dab the mess from her lips with a napkin.

“Actually,” she admits, “I’m not writing about this one.” Initially, that had been the plan, but in the end she just wanted to enjoy a meal with a friend rather than focus on the complexities of the flavours hitting her tongue.

“Oh.” Kylo breathes out, letting the words dawn on him. Rey invited him out because she _wanted_ to, not because it was convenient. He tugs at the high collar of his silken uniform, fumbles to undo a couple of buttons. It’s a little stuffy in the restaurant.

“Should I not have — ” she starts, but the chef doesn’t give her any longer to doubt herself.

“No! Just, if I had known, I wouldn’t be wearing this.” He gestures to his, well, _everything_. The apron he’s been wearing all day, the silky and yet somehow infuriatingly uncomfortable ensemble Chef Snoke has all of his staff wear. Even the hosts and servers wear something similar, because _a successful kitchen is all about order_ , or so Kylo has been told over and over.

“It’s fine, I mean, I _like_ your uniform.” Maybe a little too much. Rey definitely _has_ n’t noticed the way it seems to be tailored specifically to him, the sleeves tight around a pair of thick arms, the few undone buttons leaving a delicious slice of his pale skin visible.

Kylo goes just as red as she, and for awhile they eat in silence, something other than than the food steaming between them.

The waitress comes by to take their empty plates, and like he had at the cafe, the chef leans over the table and presses a thumb to Rey’s cheek, wiping away a blot of stray sauce. When he brings the digit to his lips and licks it clean she sputters furiously.

“H — how about dessert?” She squeaks out, crossing her legs tighter as she grabs for the little menu of drinks and sweets so that she can hide behind it. _What the hell?_ “The, uh, pineapple semifreddo looks good. Yeah. Never had pineapple before.”

“Oh, sure. I’ll flag down the waitress.” Kylo wonders if he said something wrong, until he catches her peeking at him from over the top of the little menu, hazel eyes burning. His stomach fills with butterflies, nostrils flaring as a long, measured breath escapes him.

Rey digs into their dessert with the fervour of a starved dog, and he lets her, hardly has more than two bites of the large portion they were given while she groans and stuffs herself with the rest. Although he’d never admit it aloud, the way she smooths a hand over her no doubt tight stomach makes him have to reach under the table and subtly adjust himself.

No more than fifteen minutes later they’re out the door and seated in his car. Rey fiddles with the various buttons on his dash, until she finds the seat warmer, and they’re off. Kylo slowly drives towards his flat, giving ample time for protest, but when he glances at her out of the corner of his eye he can see his company grinning.

Until about five minutes pass, and she starts shifting around in her seat, rubbing at her neck.

“I can turn around, if you want.” He offers, tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“No, it’s just — I don’t know. I’m kind of itchy.” And her voice sounds strained.

Kylo’s brows furrow as they come to a red light and he peers at her. Rey is breathing heavier now, skin reddened and blotchy. Swollen, even.

“Oh, _fuck_.” There’s a hospital a few blocks away. As soon as the light turns green he whips a screeching, illegal U-turn and speeds towards it. All the while Rey’s condition becomes increasingly worse. When she tries to speak, he hushes her. “I think you’re having an allergic reaction. I’m taking you to the hospital. Just try to breathe.”

The hospital is the last place he wants to be right now, but he doesn’t hesitate to help the wheezing girl out of the car, supporting her as they stumble towards the entrance of the emergency room. In dramatic fashion, she passes out as a nurse rushes her to a room, where Kylo can only imagine the worst possible scenario is taking place. He’s not family, so until she’s stable he’s forced to wait, knee jiggling anxiously as patient after patient walks in and out. He can’t call her friends, doesn’t know the passcode to her phone, doesn’t even know their names.

“Excuse me?” A soft voice calls out, pulling the man from his daze. How long has he been sitting here? “You came in with the young woman? Brunette, freckles.”

“Yeah, is she okay?” Kylo quips, failing to hide his nervousness in the form of irritation. Somehow, he’s convinced this is his fault.

_Anaphylaxis_ , the older woman explains. Kylo feels dizzy, knows what it means because part of working in food service is being overly aware of these things — never let the sea food touch the poultry or the red meats, clean and sanitise everything after using any sort of nut or dairy, et cetera. It dawns on him that it must have been the pineapple.

When Rey comes to, everything is too bright and blindingly white. She groans, and suddenly there’s a dark figure hovering over her, saying something she can’t quite understand.

“Where am I?” She mumbles, memory foggy.

“The hospital.” A deep, rumbling voice says, but sounds so far away. Rey remembers dinner, Kylo, thinking she was going to lose her virginity to a world-renowned chef, and then — she couldn’t breathe. Tires screeching, stumbling through a parking lot.

“Oh.” Her voice comes out cracked, wispy. “My throat hurts.” Reaching up, she rubs at it, blinking a few times in an attempt to clear her vision.

Kylo is seated next to her bed, slumped over in a too-small chair; a sight she’d laugh at were it not for her sore _everything_.

“It must have been the pineapple.” The man tries to explain, avoiding her gaze. Rey frowns, groaning as she tries to push herself up. Immediately, a big hand claps over her shoulder and forces her to lay back down. “Just relax.”

“Mm, my hero.” She jests weakly, eyes fluttering shut. “Totally worth it.”

“Dessert was that good, huh?” Kylo offers dryly, to which Rey _can’t_ help wheezing out a breathy laugh.

“Yeah, dessert.” A sigh escapes her lips as she sinks further into the mattress. “How long was I asleep?”

“All night.” The answer prompts her to crack open her eyes again, trying to find a clock. Nearly two in the afternoon.

“You . . . Work?” She questions lamely, confused.

“Took care of it.” Kylo’s voice sounds tight, teeth digging into his bottom lip. He looks like a kicked puppy. Rey can’t imagine Snoke took his absence well.

“Thanks,” she reaches out with one small hand, flexing her fingers weakly, “for waiting for me.”

What choice does he have, other than to take it as she drifts off to sleep once more?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On twitter @nsfwars!

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Twitter! @nsfwars


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